I should explain the reason for my spike in snarkiness, evinced by my most recent post. My lovely twin angels are still trying to kill me, seven months after I so graciously authorized their extraction. A two-week wait for a follow-up appointment to review abdominal CT scan results has introduced me to the limits of my can-do attitude and sanity. Thank you, WebMD, for my new-found assumption that I’m harboring some sort of lump, cyst, or physical deformity. Thank you, Surgeon Apparently-Has-a-Nanny, for the direction to lift nothing over fifteen pounds.
Mr. P and the wards three are lucky to get a slab of American cheese and a couple of grapes come dinner time these days, so I have nothing to share, especially because I refuse to expand on the events occurring within my shell of a midsection at present. But have faith, gentle readers, I shall culinarily innovate once again, as soon as I can face consuming anything other than Bombay Sapphire and Doritos (I’m all for intermingling of the classes).
I’d like to take this opportunity to hear from my readers (primarily Mr. and Mrs. S; The Hamiltons, and the Sisters Christensen) on some of their favorite signature dishes. And Jess D, feel free to share that ungodly good quesadilla pie recipe, you know, the one that still haunts my better dreams.